Page 93 of Trailer Park Billionaire
The second she sees me, she lights up like someone flipped a switch.
“Oh my god,” she calls out, barely containing the volume of her voice. “Ben! That was insane. My heart is still punching me in the throat. I mean, Pat showed up, and for a second I thought I’d have to… I don’t know, knock him out… with my words or something, but he didn’t see anything! I just had to promise to go with him on a date, and then he left, and I got out and—holy crap, I think I’m still shaking. Are you shaking? No, you don’t look like you’re shaking. You look like?—”
Something in my face must change, because she goes still. Her breath catches, her words falter.
I reach her in two strides, grab her, lift her like she weighs nothing, and I pin her gently but firmly against the side of the RV—like I’m hanging my favorite work of art on a wall.
Her hands fly to my shoulders, and before she can say anything, I kiss her.
I kiss her.
Not like a gentleman.
Like a thief. Trying to take what I want.
Hungry and desperate.
She gasps into it—surprised, then not surprised at all.
Her legs wrap around my waist like they’ve been sculpted to fit just there. Her fingers are already tangled up in my hair.
It’s like we’ve done this a thousand times, but won’t ever get to do it again.
“I know that touching the art is not encouraged around here,” I whisper against her mouth, breathless, voice rough. “But?—”
“I don’t want you to touch the art, Ben. I want you to fucking defile it,” she gasps back.
31
HELENA
Ben’s eyes narrow at my bluntness, and suddenly we’re stumbling toward the RV door like two people who’ve forgotten how to walk and only remember how to want.
He yanks the door open with one hand and hauls me inside with the other. It bangs shut behind us, and for one brief second, we just look at each other.
I’m panting. His chest is rising and falling like he just ran a marathon in that stupidly sexy suit that’s hiding a lot more of him than it should. His tie is half-undone, his hair a mess from my fingers, and his eyes are wild. Dark. Focused entirely on me, like I’m the thing he wants to steal most in this entire world.
I carefully put the painting down, and then he’s on me again.
My back hits the tiny kitchenette hard enough that something crashes to the floor and shatters. Probably a plate, or a mug, or my common sense.
It doesn’t matter, because his mouth smashes into mine again. He kisses me like he’s been waiting to do it since the moment we met.
“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he mutters, both hands slipping under my ass, giving it a squeeze, and a quick little spank.
“If you stop,” I gasp, breathless and already arching into him, “I will probably start crying again.”
He grins. Then bites my bottom lip. “Crying, huh? Well, it’d be too bad if I was into that.”
I moan. Loud. Embarrassingly loud. Like we’re in a five-star hotel suite with mood lighting and room service, not a creaky RV parked behind the museum we just robbed.
“Into me crying?” I ask, panting.
He hums into my neck, teeth grazing skin.
I can’t help but moan again—even louder. “Then I’d suggest giving me a better spanking than what you just did. That should do the trick. Unless you’re not strong enough…”
Ben pulls back slowly, sporting a wicked grin like I haven’t seen before. His hands slide up to my neck, wrapping around it—not tight, just enough to make me stand on my tiptoes to keep from dangling. And he could make me dangle. With those muscles of his, he absolutely could.
